Family Interrupted (12 page)

“So, is it shrimp or salmon, Claire?”

I wanted to throw up.

JACK

Conspiring with my in-laws had been a no-brainer. When Barbara and Judy came up with their intervention plan, I heartily endorsed it and wondered why I hadn’t consulted with them much earlier. Tough love. I thought the concept was reserved for problematic children, but my sister-in-law didn’t seem to have any qualms about adopting the method with Claire.

Some people might think we were being unreasonable, that a year was barely long enough to absorb the bitter truth about Kayla. With most people, they’d be right. But Claire was pushing us all away. I knew she was only going through the motions at work. She was getting it done, but there was no zip, no enthusiasm. She ignored the phone at home and would do the same at the office if she could. The only person she saw outside the family was her friend Anne with whom she jogged a couple of nights a week.

After her outburst, Claire sat next to me in the back seat of Judy’s car. She stared out her side window, not speaking, her fingers turning white as they clutched the straps of her purse. She was sizzling because I “manipulated” her. I caressed her hand, putting mine over hers.

“Come on, Claire,” I whispered. “Relax. You know we love you. Try to enjoy yourself. It’s only a lunch, and you’re with your favorite people.”

With a quick movement, she freed her hand from mine. “I don’t think so. Not anymore.”

“Well, if you don’t sweeten up, you won’t be their favorite either.”

“Stop talking to me like I’m a child. You betrayed me, and right now, I don’t give a flying fig about any of you. In fact, I don’t give a flying fuck. Especially about you.”

Ow. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d heard Claire use
the
ultimate of swear words. And never had she aimed it at me. I stifled a smile and refused to worry. Our nights were still going strong.

“A flying fig? Really, Claire? I don’t believe that for a moment.”

“Really, Jack?” she mimicked, swiveling to face me before shouting, “You act like you don’t even miss her. Like you don’t even know she’s gone. The world’s the same to you. You get up, go to work, and come home, talking about the business like it was important or something.”

My brain got stuck on “not miss her.” Not miss my sweet daughter?

“What the hell would you have me do?” I shouted. “Let the company go bankrupt? Someone has to turn it around. Someone has to keep promises made to customers and staff. I can’t pretend it doesn’t matter. It does matter to me. And it should matter to you.”

Judy pulled the car to the curb. My mother-in-law began crying. But I wasn’t finished yet.

“And don’t you ever—
ever
—tell me how I feel about Kayla. Not miss her? Maybe you’re losing your mind because only a woman not thinking straight could say something like that...about me!”

Breathing hurt. I dragged air into my lungs and heaved it out. More quietly, I added, “You think you own the corner on grief, Claire, but you don’t. I just put on a better front—for your sake—so I won’t drag you down further than you are. One of us has to function normally.”

“My hero.”

Sarcasm didn’t become her. She looked me in the eye and added, “Don’t martyr yourself for me.” Then she stuck her chin out and spoke to her sister. “Either take me home or to the closest car rental place. I think there’s one about a mile west of here.”

I popped an antacid.

“This isn’t the end of it,” said Judy, game once more as she pulled into traffic and headed back to the office. “It’s only the beginning. We may not be lunching, but the day hasn’t been wasted. You got your hair done and...you and Jack...well, let’s say you’ve communicated—in a new way. Sort of unpeeling the onion. I’m very satisfied with our progress so far.”

Whatever the hell that meant. I ignored Judy’s onion remark, but to be called a martyr? The word stuck in my craw. “I’ll be home late tonight,” I said to Claire as I exited the car. “Don’t bother waiting up.”

#

When I returned to my office, I shut the door, sat at the computer, and typed “support groups” into the search engine. In the time it took to sneeze, hundreds of listings appeared. Who knew so many people depended on strangers for help? Yet here I was doing the same.

Trying to narrow the search, I added
Houston
and
death of a child
to my inquiry and studied the results. Interesting. I could choose to join an online group or an in-person group. I typed with only my two index fingers, so this was a no-brainer for me. Besides, as Claire had often said, I was a people-person.

Scanning the in-person list, my eyes halted like a spent bullet on one of them: The
Miss You Foundation
; a support group for Grieving Parents.

My throat closed, my eyes watered.
Miss you every day, baby.

Without further thought, I clicked the link for the website, printed out the information I needed, and tucked the paper into my top desk drawer. I continued to sit there for a few minutes, catching my breath and enjoying the peace that settled inside me. I would have preferred Claire and Ian to attend at least one meeting with me, but I didn’t need their permission to go alone. To help myself. Maybe learn how to help my family...before we disappeared.

The phone rang, and for the rest of the day, I wore my President-of-Barnes Construction hat. Saturdays were busier than weekdays sometimes, and I had plenty of work to catch up on. My watch said six when I looked at it again. Meeting Ian for dinner wasn’t an option, not on Saturday nights. Making new friends required he be available to socialize. My stomach growled, but I wasn’t ready to go home.

Claire had crossed the line today. My patience was gone, and I had no desire to handle more of her histrionics. Did I say handle? A joke. I tried. I did try. I was the guy who lived with her and loved her, but I was also struggling to survive myself. Something had to change. For the first time, I wondered if healing Claire was truly my job. A long time ago, she’d said not. But she was failing at it.

Tired, I leaned back in my chair and closed my eyes. Thinking about my wife required too much effort. My stomach rumbled again, and I suddenly realized I didn’t have to go home to get a decent meal. Willie’s Ice House was only a few blocks away. Picturing one of their thick, juicy burgers with a brewski on the side had me salivating.

I made the rounds of the building, shut off a couple of lights—another conservation reminder would go out in the morning—then returned to my office near the front entrance. Grabbing my car keys, I scanned the room and got ready to leave. Just as I reached the door, the phone on my desk rang.
We’re closed, pal. I’m tired and hungry. Get a life.
If my name weren’t on the building, I would’ve let it ring. Instead, I leaned over and picked up the receiver.

“Barnes speaking.”

“Is this Jack Barnes?”

“That’s me.”

“Ahh, my name is Marc Levine. You might not recognize—”I cut him off. “I know who you are.” And why the hell was he calling me? I had nothing to say to the man whose wife killed my daughter.

“I suppose you do,” Levine said in a subdued tone. “I’m very sorry to bother you. I’m out walking the dog. Sarah doesn’t know I’m calling. I took a chance you’d...I’m...I’m—oh, damn it. I thought I could put my words together, but...”

He sounded barely older than Ian. “What do you want? Just spit it out.” And then I could get my burger and beer and pretend he hadn’t called.

“Okay, okay. The bottom line is that my wife’s having a-a nervous breakdown. The nightmares haven’t gone away, the guilt is killing her and...”

I had my own problems. I didn’t need his. “There are doctors who treat that.”

“Yeah. I know. Except she’s...she’s not doing too well. She can’t forgive herself. The psychiatrist suggested that Mrs. Barnes might be doing better than Sarah, and if Sarah knew that to be true, she might take heart. And then we could make a real beginning and...and have a future.”

He paused, and I heard him breathing heavily into the phone. Maybe gasping. The guy was scared, almost too scared to talk to me.

“I know I have a lot of nerve calling, Mr. Barnes, but I don’t know what else to do. Sarah left her teaching position, and she was the team leader for the third grade staff. Teaching was her career, and she loved it. She never went back after...afterwards. Doesn’t trust herself to be around kids, not even ours.”

For damn sure, I didn’t want to know all this. “I’m sorry about your wife, but I can’t help you.”

“I’m begging you. Please. Just any bit of encouragement about Mrs. Barnes...?”

His desperation echoed in my head. I understood that feeling all too well myself, and I let my guard slip.

“You don’t have to beg, Mr. Levine,” I said quietly. “If I could help, I would.” I sagged against the desk. “But I’m very sorry to admit that my wife’s not much better off than yours. She’s just going through the motions of living—at work and home—finding fault, not able to concentrate. She’s not herself. I’m not sure what to do.”

Silence on the other end. I guess he was processing another failed effort.

“Then I’m more than sorry to have bothered you,” Levine said. I heard his sadness, resignation...and defeat. “It won’t happen again.”

I could feel the man’s pain. It was my pain too.

“Don’t give up!” How ironic for me to offer advice when I had no clue myself.

“I love my wife, Mr. Barnes. Giving up is not an option, but right now life is...is...”

“...difficult?” I completed.

“Amen. We get through one day at a time, which is the advice of the shrink, the rabbi, and the rest of our family.”

The man had accomplished more than I had. At least Sarah Levine was seeing professionals who could take action. But Claire? Never.

“I’ll save your number,” I heard myself say. “I’ll let you know if things get better.”

I took my time with the burger then drove around for awhile, needing to unwind. When I pulled into our subdivision, I parked near the lake and walked twice around the water at a good pace. I could have done more. It was after eleven when I let myself into the house. I expected Claire to be asleep, and she was—on the family room sofa.

“I’m mad at you, Jack,” she murmured when I gently woke her. “Very angry. I’m staying here.”

“Suit yourself.”

I could have told her about Marc Levine’s phone call right then. She would have awakened fast enough, her anger deflected from me to the Levines, binding us closer against the common enemy. But talking about Sarah Levine would also reopen Claire’s still-bleeding wounds, o
ur
wounds, and I had no heart for the drama to follow if I revealed my sympathy for the husband.

I made my way to the bedroom, relieved to be alone. For the first time in almost twenty-four years, I wanted my own space. This wasn’t the kind of change I’d report to Marc Levine.

CLAIRE

October

I pulled into the visitor’s parking lot at West Side Hospital, relieved to be feeling strong and ready for my interview with Ms. Garcia. I’d had no flashbacks—at least not yet—and I took it as a good sign. I was ready for this, ready to give back. If all went well, I’d let Jack know about my new endeavor this evening.

Fifteen minutes later, I sat across from the volunteer director’s desk, relaxed in her presence as we began to talk. It didn’t take me long to figure out that behind her hospitality hid a very sharp woman.

“Our volunteer program enhances the services we offer here,” she began after greeting me, “especially in the pediatric area, where we’re dealing with both children and their families. So don’t be fooled by the word ‘volunteer.’ You are important! And I’m always happy to meet potential volunteers.”

“It sounds like a well-run program.”

“I like to think it is. We treat our unpaid staff as professionals. We run a background check and provide a full orientation to the hospital and department. We depend on our volunteers to take their work seriously.”

“Wow. A background check? I hadn’t thought about that, but it makes sense. We do the same thing when we hire staff.”

She leaned toward me. “Good. So you understand. Now, Mrs. Barnes, can you tell me why you’d like to spend time with our young patients?”

Because I failed Kayla. Because helping these kids might clear my conscience and make me feel better. Because maybe Kayla would be proud of me.
I am such an idiot. Why hadn’t I prepared for some real questions? And this was so basic.

“Well, I think I have a lot to offer. Especially doing art projects. I can work with the children in any media. And...and I’ve got a lot of patience.”
Used to have a lot of patience.
“I’d be able to stick with a hot Monopoly session for a long time.”

“Sounds good,” said Ms. Garcia with a smile. “I see from your application that you and your husband own a business. It’s been my experience that owners work round-the-clock. Are you able to get away on a regular basis and not disappoint the children?”

I nodded before she’d finished asking the question. “I can usually rearrange my day without a problem. That’s one of the perks of being an owner.” I smiled back at her, confident I’d made a good rebuttal.

“Oh, that’s excellent,” the woman replied. “And what experience do you have with children?”

My throat closed. Pictures flashed through my mind. Kayla laughing. Studio. Clay. Kayla. Easel. Crayons. Maddy. Paper. Laughing. Kayla. Dinner. Soccer. Running. Jack. Ian. Kayla.
Don’t cry. Don’t cry.

“Mrs. Barnes? Are you all right?” The woman’s voice seemed to come from afar.

“Fine. I’m fine. Just got caught up in the past for a moment.”

Ms. Garcia tilted her head and waited. Patiently. Hands folded.

“I-I have a lot of experience with kids.” My voice sounded like gravel hitting a cement pipe. “My son is eighteen. Thinks he’s all grown up.”

A quick smile, but she said nothing, just waited for me. I suppose she had the art of interviewing down pat. I could have walked away at this point and put an end to the whole experience. No one would know I’d failed again except me.